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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/23760361">December 1994</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/inkdr0p/pseuds/inkdr0p'>inkdr0p</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Supernatural</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Angst, Christmas, Christmas Eve, Dean Winchester Feels, Family Angst, Gen, It's a Wonderful Life, John Winchester's A+ Parenting, Kid Sam Winchester, Pie, Referenced Suicide Attempt (Not Sam or Dean), Sad Dean Winchester, Teen Dean Winchester, Teenchesters</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-04-20</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-04-20</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-02 17:27:57</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>2,557</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/23760361</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/inkdr0p/pseuds/inkdr0p</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>15-year-old Dean is left to spend Christmas Eve alone and reluctantly ends up watching "It's a Wonderful Life." He gets more feels than he bargained for.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>2</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>43</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>December 1994</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Dean's claim in 9x03 "I'm No Angel" that he's never seen "It's a Wonderful Life" has never made sense to me given just how much TV the guy watched growing up, hence this fic. This is my first fic so thanks for reading and hope you like it!</p><p>Thanks to @ioniafletcher for being a great beta and also for getting me to watch Supernatural in the first place.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>December 1994</p><p>They’d been expecting John for a week, but Sam and Dean were both careful to keep the note of pleading out of their voices as they stood gathered around a single telephone receiver listening to their father make promises. “Once I finish up this job I’ll come right back to you boys.” Even with the poor connection, the edge in John’s voice was clear. Dean heard it and stayed silent, swallowing down his disappointment, but Sam leaned in, equal parts hopeful and hesitant, and started to say something. “Dad, I--” John cut him off, barking a stern “I have to go. Dean, look after your brother” and the faraway phone clicked dead.</p><p>“Dean, look after your brother” would be etched into John’s headstone, if hunters got headstones.</p><p>That had been days ago, and whatever had been on Sam’s mind during that phone call with Dad had dug itself in even deeper. Dean stood in the bathroom of the cheap motel room, door open, slowly waving an old hair dryer over a paper plate with two store-brand pop tarts on it. He watched a sliver of Sam’s reflection in the mirror while Sam absentmindedly watched something on the small, boxy TV that sat opposite the two beds. Realizing the pop tarts were about as warm as that hair dryer was going to make them -- which was not very warm at all -- Dean grabbed the plate and swooped into the room with a flourish and a grin, trying to cheer up his little brother.</p><p>“Sammy, fresh from the oven!”</p><p>Sam looked at the plate and then up at his brother’s expectant face; he knew Dean was trying to cheer him up, and that only made him feel worse. Pop tarts were much more not-pie than pie, but they were the closest thing Dean had managed to get in a while, which made them a prized item and not something Dean shared lightly. Sam took one of the warmed over pastries, hungry and happy for the food but wishing Dean had gone with something less meaningful.</p><p>“Come on Sam, Dad’ll be here any time now. He said he would. He’ll be here.” Dean projected a confidence he didn’t feel, and knowing that Sam wasn’t buying it either just made Dean sell it even harder, flicking his eyebrows up and widening his smile.</p><p>“That’s not-- Dean that’s not why I’m…”</p><p>Dean sat down on the corner of the bed, setting the plate between them. “Just say it Sam.”</p><p>Sam sighed and carefully placed the half-eaten pop tart back on the plate. “Someone in my class invited me over today, and to stay for dinner and…”</p><p>“It’s Christmas Eve, Sam!”</p><p>“Since when do you care about Christmas?”</p><p>Dean didn’t have an argument prepared, so to buy some time he took a big bite of the unpleasantly dry pop tart. “Who is it? And who asks a kid to a family dinner anyway? Don’t they know you’ve got people?”</p><p>Suddenly, that last trace of hope that had been lingering on Sam’s face was gone. He was all reluctance now, all discomfort. “It’s Mr. Miller, my teacher. And no, Dean, he doesn’t.” Sam hesitated. “I didn’t tell him about Dad or, or you.”</p><p>Dean swallowed suddenly, the dry half-chewed pop tart going down hard. Despite Dean’s constant efforts to keep up that carefully maintained facade of amused nonchalance, it fell away momentarily and Sam could see the hurt all over his brother’s face. “What?! What do they think, you’re just some lost kid living all on his own? How does that--”</p><p>“I told them I was a foster kid.” The admission from Sam was quiet, but when he saw that the hurt on Dean’s face had been replaced with indignation, frustration bubbled to the surface. “<em>What</em>, Dean? I’m supposed to show up at a new school and tell ‘em about monsters and Dad and this?” Sam gestured around the motel room at the stained carpet and ratty curtains, the telephone that didn’t ring as much as it should, the pile of duffle bags that contained the boys’ entire lives. “I didn’t mean to leave you out but… I mean, what do <em>you</em> tell people?”</p><p>“I don’t.”</p><p>Sam and Dean sat in still silence for a moment, each turning the conversation over in their minds. Dean moved first, a small twitch that brought his slumped shoulders back into square and masked his face in a tight smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “You know what Sam, you should go. I get it, it’s fine.” Dean clapped his brother on the shoulder and turned to look at him. “You never had a Christmas before Mom died.”</p><p>------------------</p><p>Any other day, if Dean had been offered an afternoon to himself he’d have been thrilled. Lazing around the motel room, sneaking into a movie, maybe even playing a game or two of pool because he likes it and not just because he needs some lunch money for Sam. Today though, he just felt restless and the motel room felt too small. Dean dug around in his duffle for the worn copy of "The Sirens of Titan" he’d read a dozen times already, ignoring the years and years of unfolded dog-ears and opening it to the one that was folded down. He only owned a few books and had read them all enough times that he should have been able to enjoy this one even with his wandering attention, but soon the Vonnegut novel had been tossed aside.</p><p>Dean turned on the TV, not expecting much to be on -- the town they were in was so small it only had four channels -- but he got lucky when on the third click of the dial he came upon <em>The Running Man</em>. Sure it was staticky and the image was full of ghosts and it was dubbed into Spanish, but it was peak Schwarzenegger and Dean had seen it a hundred times anyway while holed up in a hundred other motel rooms so he really didn’t need to speak Spanish to know what was going on. Jesse Ventura dressed up like a spandex Christmas tree while body slamming the Terminator kinda spoke for itself. A few times during the especially good parts, Dean gestured over to the other bed and started to say something to Sam before remembering he wasn’t there.</p><p>When <em>The Running Man</em> ended it was replaced by a Spanish dub of the absolute last movie Dean was hoping would be next: <em>It’s a Wonderful Life</em>. He clicked the dial and what the hell, the next channel was showing it too? Clicked again and again and holy shit every one of the four channels was simulcasting <em>It’s a Wonderful Life</em>. It’s almost like it was Christmas Eve or something.</p><p>“<em>Die Hard</em>’s a Christmas movie too ya know,” Dean grumbled, but he didn’t turn off the TV, instead picking the channel that had the best reception and punching the bed’s lumpy pillows in an unsuccessful effort to get comfortable.</p><p>The first half hour of the movie was an exercise in carefully practiced boredom. Scenes of happy families were always something Dean was leery of -- superficially he found them dull, but truthfully he just didn’t like to think about how much they hurt to watch, reminders of the homelife he’d just begun to have before everything changed. It was so much easier to dismiss something as dumb, so that’s what Dean did. But there was some real boredom as well; secret sentimentality or no, watching a bunch of ten year olds flirt across the counter of a soda fountain wasn’t exactly Dean’s idea of fun.</p><p>Two things, though, managed to keep his attention just enough for Dean not to fall asleep. The first was George Bailey rescuing his kid brother Harry from a near-fatal accident which yeah, Dean could appreciate that. The second thing was the pie. Goddamn if the Bailey family didn’t seem to subsist exclusively on pie. Dean glanced over at Sam’s half-eaten pop tart, abandoned after this morning’s awkward conversation. Just able to reach it with the very tips of his fingers, Dean fished it up off the plate and folded it into his mouth. Suddenly aware of how much he missed Sam, the pop tart seemed twice as dry and half as flavorful as the one Dean had shared with him this morning, and it went down just as hard.</p><p>The movie marched on. There was a school dance that ended with everyone taking a swim in their clothes and an epically corny pick-up attempt that had Dean rolling his eyes before a montage of his own attempts sheepishly flashed through his mind. There was the family bank stuff (boring), a wedding (ugh), and Dean was so close to kicking the off switch on the TV because <em>anything</em> had to be better than this, even sitting silent and alone in a dark room on Christmas Eve. But then old Papa Bailey died and George had to do the right thing and live a life he never wanted, a life he resented, a life of duty. The tone of the movie had shifted and something in Dean shifted too.</p><p>Dean watched as George Bailey struggled with his sense of obligation to his family. Obligation to honor his father by taking over the family business, obligation to the people who relied on the Baileys for their safety and security, obligation to live the life he least wanted just so his little brother wouldn’t have to. Dean watched George make all the choices he himself would have felt compelled to, and then watched those choices consume George from the inside out until his pain became a burden -- and so surely also his presence -- to the people he loved most.</p><p>Outside the dingy motel room where Dean Winchester sat alone, transfixed, a train trundled by, horn echoing in the night while a distraught and utterly defeated George made his way to a bridge and prepared to jump. Dean leaned in toward the TV, frustrated by the interruption the train caused and surprised that he agreed with George’s decision to jump. A guy can only take so much, right? But then some idiot had to show up on the bridge and ruin George’s plan, take advantage of the fact that George was a good guy who’d always do for others even if it meant hurting himself. How dare this guy get in the way of George just trying to do something for himself for once?</p><p>So George didn’t die and neither did the idiot. For a brief moment, Dean’s mood came up for air when he realized this strange disheveled guy was the angel from the beginning of the movie and he laughed at the cheap costume and how easy to please audiences must have been back then. “Oh come on, no wings? Angels gotta have wings. How else do you know they’re not just a weird guy in a coat?”</p><p>Dean clung to the sudden, welcome buoyance he felt as George and the angel set off to explore just how important it was for everyone around him that George continue his hollow existence. The people of Bedford Falls would apparently be miserable in a variety of ways had George Bailey never existed, but none of it really seemed all that bad to Dean. So what if George’s wife wore glasses and was a librarian? Who cares if the town had a bunch of bars and nightclubs? Seemed like an improvement, actually. Okay so the pharmacist was a drunk, but most of John’s hunter friends were drunks and they were fine.</p><p>Dean was able to scoff and roll his eyes and tread the murky waters of his psyche until George learned of his little brother’s fate. Without George around to rescue him, Harry died in that childhood accident, and without Harry around later to rescue <em>them</em>, hundreds of other people eventually died as well. Dean slipped, pulled down into the undertow of his thoughts, remembering the night he held an infant Sam in his small arms, the two of them so close to the burning house that the warmth of the flames was near enough to hurt.</p><p>So as that final, iconic scene began to play out, while George Bailey rushed into his warm glowing home to find all the people he loves and all the people who love him, Dean didn’t see any of it. He was right there in front of that shitty TV, but far far away in his own mind. Deep down in that part of himself that intoned day in and day out “Family.” And duty. And obligation. And that love meant grinding yourself down into a thousand little pieces if doing so had even a chance to spare someone else from a fate a tenth as bad. To Dean, and probably to a few other people who sat alone in their own rooms that Christmas Eve, <em>It’s a Wonderful Life</em> wasn’t about how great George really had it, but how terrible everyone’s life would be if he weren’t there to hold back what life would <em>really</em> like to be dishing out to them.</p><p>------------------</p><p>Dean’s reverie was broken by the motel room door slamming into the latch chain and John’s shouts of “GOD<em>DAMN</em> IT!” as he tried to burst into the room. “Dean open the fucking door!” Dean leapt off the bed, slipping on the salt line on the floor and nearly slamming the door in his dad’s face as he rushed to unlatch the chain.</p><p>On the TV, the grateful townspeople of Bedford Falls had begun thanking George Bailey for his selflessness, but Dean wasn’t watching, Dean didn’t hear.</p><p>The moment the chain was free, John pushed his way into the room, grabbing the dirty laundry on the nearest bed and tossing it at Dean. “Dean, you gotta-- we gotta go. We got about five minutes before the cops show up. Get this stuff packed <em>now</em>.”</p><p>“Dad?”</p><p>“The hunt got messy and, look, Dean just do what I tell you.” John stalked to the bathroom and smacked a rough palm on the flimsy wood of the closed door. “Sam, get out here. We’re leaving.” Nothing. “Sam!”</p><p>“Um, he’s not in there,” Dean said, not looking up from his work packing cans of salt and a jug of holy water into an old army surplus backpack.</p><p>“<em>What?</em>” John crossed the room in just two or three strides, inserting himself into his son’s space and exuding that drill sergeant aura he could turn on and off at will. “Where the hell is he Dean?”</p><p>“He-- he’s at dinner at his teacher’s house. He wanted... Christmas.” Dean was standing up straight now, but still couldn’t bring himself to look his father directly in the eye. John let out a sharp sigh that went straight to Dean’s core, straight to the place he’d been when John had burst through the door.</p><p>Father and son busied themselves with grabbing what few unpacked possessions remained in the room and headed for the door. John herded Dean through, pushing with his hands but also pushing with his words and his tone and most importantly his disappointment. “Dean, you were supposed to look after your brother.”</p><p>On the TV in the now empty room, George Bailey knew he was loved.</p>
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